Naughty in Nottinghamshire 02 - The Rogue Returns (3 page)

She bit her lip.

“Your supplies?”

She hadn’t any, he knew.

“Your pistol?”

She lifted her chin. “A lady has no need of a pistol.”

“A lady…” He shook his head. Was she daft? “A lady does not greet strangers half dressed and
wet
. Neither does she sleep in the forest. Have you goddamn lost your mind? What if I had been some criminal?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it.

He did not bend. If she knew the truth about him, she would wish she had that pistol. “You are not safe here. You are not safe with me.”

Her lips twisted and he thought for a moment she might weep. But, she fisted her hands at her sides and jammed her spine straight. “And who shall keep me safe in Cromford? The servants who abandoned me for fear they’d never be paid? Or shall I return to London, and the ruffians stalking my front door? Oh no,” she held up her hand, “of course, my brother Harry shall keep me safe. Harry, who looks for every answer in a bottle. Indeed, it has been some time since I have been
safe
. I think I shall take my chances and protect my half of the gold.”

She was a blaze of stubborn determination. A blaze he did not need. Roane tried another tactic. “You would be much more comfortable in town. With your things.”

“I would be much more comfortable with my eight thousand pounds. Here is my shovel.” She shoved the spade into the earth by his feet, nearly taking out his big toe. “I’ll wait right here while you dig.”

G
OOD LORD, HE WAS HERE ALREADY.
Helen stared at the man in the darkening meadow, her heart pounding in fretful waves. Roane Grantham had come to claim the gold for himself, just like his letter said. But he was not to arrive for another fortnight, after she’d safely deposited her half of the fortune in a strongbox in London.

Panic bit into her, hot and sharp like the teeth of a wild animal. She curled her toes in her wet boots, refusing to scurry back to Cromford like a scared mouse. She had to believe Grantham would not harm her—James might befriend gamblers and rogues, but never a man who would hurt a woman. Besides, she was wet. And angry. And done,
done
, with charming men playing loose with her future, including her own brothers.

Not that Grantham seemed to care she was putting herself in his way. He ignored the shovel she’d planted at his feet and walked away toward his huge black horse.

It would be lovely if he simply left, but of course he wouldn’t. Helen drew in a deep breath, willing her heart to settle, and waited to see what he would do next. This wasn’t the first scrape she’d been in, trying to clean up her brother’s messes.

“Are you hungry, buttercup?” he asked without looking at her. He rummaged through his saddlebag and his mount stepped sideways, impatient. The beast was huge, surely ridden out of the bowels of hell, and could crush her with one stamp of his hoofs.

Helen edged back a step. Grantham might be more bark than bite, but that wild horse just might trample her to death. “I am not your buttercup.”

“I still do not know your name.” He turned toward her and brushed his shaggy blond hair back from his forehead. Without the large hat shadowing his face, he appeared quite harmless. In fact, his warm eyes, sharp cheekbones, and full lips were rather handsome. Even the scruff along his sharp jaw was appealing.

“My name is Helen.” She yanked her skirt free from the low bush she’d backed into. “Helen Gladstone, as you surmised.”

“Are you hungry, Helen?”

“Lady Helen.”

His lips tilted into a rather devastating smile. A dimple appeared on his right cheek and his teeth flashed white against the tanned skin of his face. Her heart tumbled, just a touch. Just enough to remind her that he was not
completely
safe. Not to any woman with eyes. “Are you hungry,
Lady Helen
?”

“I suppose I am, yes.”

“Perfect. You can prepare a meal while I see to my mount. I have need of refreshment before I set to digging.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to protest. When had she ever prepared a meal? But her stomach growled, reminding her she’d not eaten since breakfast.

Grantham tossed a coarse sack in her direction, and it smacked against her left arm. Rendered speechless, she stared at the bag where it lay on the ground beside her shovel. One did not
toss
items at a lady. Not even her brothers dared something so boorish.

Of all the things James had said about his good friend Roane Grantham, she had expected the man to have better manners.

“You will find a cold repast,” he said, drawing her gaze up to his. Mirth twinkled in his eyes as he noted her reaction. “I’ve not much to eat, but enough for now. I don’t suppose you have a knife?”

Helen picked up the sack, determined to withstand his teasing with her dignity intact. “A lady has no need of a knife.”

With a long-suffering sigh, he removed a knife from his boot, then crossed the clearing to hand it to her. Thankfully, he didn’t throw the knife at her as well. He dipped his head, his gaze holding hers as he placed the hilt in her palm. His eyes were a soft amber brown, with lines fanning out at the corners as if he smiled easily and often. “A lady might have need of a knife, were she to be found alone in the woods. Any scoundrel could happen by. And, perhaps, she might need to cut cheese.”

Helen gripped the wooden hilt of the knife as he walked away. It was more of a weapon than her shovel. He must not think her an equal adversary, to simply give it to her. She tried to imagine fighting him, cutting him, and shuddered. Wherever Tommy was, she hoped her footman felt sick with guilt for abandoning her in a strange town, back wages or not.

Silence fell as she sat on a bumpy log and cut the bread, cheese and ham while Grantham removed the saddlebags and brushed down his horse-from-hell. Then he disappeared into the trees and returned minutes later, fresh-faced from the creek, and
naked
.

Well, naked to the waist, anyway. Really, there was an awful lot of skin on display. Tanned, glistening skin drawn taut over impressive muscles.

My, my.

Why was it that rogues were always the most handsome?

Helen stared as he picked up a saddlebag and rummaged around inside, the muscles of his shoulders and chest bunching and stretching in the most indelicate way. Yes, she felt anything but
delicate
as she watched, her mouth dry, her skin flushed.

A branch snapped nearby, and Grantham turned toward the sound, giving her his back. My God. She sucked in a breath. His back was covered in scars. Raised lines that showed a brutal lashing. They crossed his spine in a jagged motion that suggested he had taken more than one beating.

Who had done this to him? The scars were healed now, but they were still prominent. She could only assume they were acquired recently.

Who lashed a grown man?

Grantham dropped the saddlebag, pulled on another shirt and turned to face her. The linen hung open at the neck and clung to his damp chest and shoulders. He’d not bothered with a cravat.

She had to force herself to stop staring as he crossed the clearing and accepted a hunk of bread and cheese from her. He ate lounging on the ground, his back against a tree, looking to all the world as comfortable as a cat in the sun. Only his eyes held any hint of tension. They studied the meadow as if he were piecing together a puzzle. Indeed, he did not seem like a man who knew where sixteen thousand pounds were buried. In fact, if she were the wagering sort, she would bet he was delaying the search on purpose.

Was he trying to cheat her out of her portion?

“Are you finished?” she prodded. “Ready to dig, Mr. Grantham?”

“No one calls me Mr. Grantham; it is Roane.” He looked over at her. “Night will fall soon.”

“All the more reason to begin digging straightaway.”

“Will you take some friendly advice and allow me to return you to Cromford? We can leave at once.”

“No.”

“No?” He pressed to standing and crossed toward her. “I do not ride these roads after dark. ‘Tis too dangerous.”

She stood as well, not wanting him to tower over her. Yet tower he did. He came closer, and closer still, and she didn’t even reach his shoulders.

He stopped before her and leaned in as if telling her a secret. “You are certain you will sleep here? With me?”

“I am certain.” Though she did not sound so certain, with her voice caught in her throat. Her breath was galloping ahead of her, spurred on by his nearness.

He tilted his head to the side and considered her, still not backing away. “I’m not a nice man, buttercup. You are a gorgeous treat to find here in the woods. I make no promises about my behavior.” His voice was low and sent a shiver down her spine. It was a tone that very well did make promises. Promises of touches, tastes, lingering caresses. And pleasure.

Helen felt her face heat and forced herself to stand taller. Mere charm and flirtation were not enough to outmaneuver her. She knew more about rogues than any lady of two and twenty ought to know. “If you think to intimidate me, you will not. I am staying here.”

He raked his gaze over her, leaving a trail of unwanted heat on her skin. She anticipated what he would say next. Something about her hair or her complexion or whatnot. She would stop that nonsense before it began. “Your silver tongue will not—“

“There is a spider on your skirts,” he nodded toward her.

“What?” She shrieked and bumped into his chest as she turned side to side. “Where?”

Roane stepped back as she danced in a tight circle, flapping her gown like a flustered hen.

“Where is it?” she cried. “Is it gone?”

“Slow down, let me see.” Taking his time, he leaned forward and made a big show of looking at her skirts. “I
think
it is gone, but it could have climbed up. Maybe into your hair.”

“Aaak.” She was dancing again, swatting at her shoulders and arms, swiping the back of her neck.

Roane crossed his arms, threw his head back, and let loose loud guffaws of laughter.

Helen stopped her ridiculous hopping and smacked him on his upper arm. His rather solid,
muscular
arm. “I should know better than to listen to anything you say.” She huffed but again brushed the back of her neck. “Spider, indeed.”

His laughter subsided to chuckles and he shook his head. “You are never going to make it one night in these woods. Spiders are the least of your worries.”

She crossed her arms, mimicking his posture. “Oh no?” Certainly she could endure one uncomfortable night for her share of sixteen thousand. “Watch me.”

“Oh, now that sounds interesting. Watch you what, exactly?” He deliberately misunderstood her words and ran a hand down her neck, from the edge of her ear, over the sensitive skin of her collarbone. “Watch you take your clothes off? Watch you touch—”

She jerked back. “Behave yourself.”

“But that is never any fun.” He grinned that grin that sent heat pouring through her.

Heat pounded through her. She needed to get back in control of this conversation. “I think you are stalling.”

His smile fell. “I give you my word that I will bring you James’s half of the money.”

“Your word?” She picked up the shovel and thrust it at him. “Ha.”

For the first time, anger flashed across his features. He stared at her a moment, then shook his head and grabbed the shovel. He muttered something under his breath. It was probably for the best she could not make out the words.

“Where are you going?” she asked, hurrying behind him as he crossed the meadow.

“To find the damn gold.” He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and set the shovel to the earth. Muscles corded along his exposed forearms as he dug a large pile of soil. He made a nice size hole without any appearance of tiring.

Excitement and annoyance warred within her. Would he truly just dig up the gold? After she’d been searching for three days?

Five minutes later, the hole came up empty, and he started digging again.

“You said you knew where the gold was,” she called out, worry making her tone sharp.

He took a breath. “Not exactly. Three years is quite a long time ago, and I wasn’t exactly sober.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Give me five tries.” He looked around the meadow. “You have dug near to a hundred holes. I just need five.”

He dug again, grumbling as he worked. Something about “half his”, and “meddlesome women.” And “damn horses?” What did that mean?

Finally, he looked up, swiping his damp blond curls out of his eyes so he could see her. “Are you just going to stand there?”

“What would you have me do?” She raised her brows.

He glanced down at her hands. They were red and raw and pained her, but he could not know that.

“You could bind your palms,” he said. “I have salve in my pack. It’s for a horse but should work fine, even for a
lady
.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t want me here when you find the money.”

“So suspicious.” He shook his head, turned, and started digging another hole just in front of the last. The muscles of his back strained beneath his damp chemise, and his breeches pulled tight over his bottom as he worked. Such a vulgar thing, digging and sweating in the mud. But her breath hitched as she watched him. He was breathtakingly handsome and…virile and…manly. She had never seen anything like him before.